


Bedside Manner

by Nerissa



Category: A Million Ways to Die in the West (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Humour, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Not-so-near-death experience, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9057370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerissa/pseuds/Nerissa
Summary: Albert is once again convinced he's about to die, but Anna holds out hope.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OzQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/gifts).



“This is it, Anna.”

Albert slumped against the headboard of their little bed, pushed flush against the wall of the cramped farmhouse he and his wife shared (for lack of ability to find anywhere else to put them) with Albert’s parents. He stared fixedly at the ceiling, clutched his stomach, and sweated in quiet resignation to his terrible fate.

“This is the end.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Anna frowned, “I don’t think it’s actually as dire as all that.”

“No, it’s dire. I’m definitely—yeah. I think I’m seeing spots. My tongue feels furry. The room is spinning.”

“Well that’s understandable. When you pulled that stupidly dramatic faint you actually hit your head pretty hard on the table. That would probably account for—”

“Promise me you’ll take care of Bridget.”

“Albert—”

“You can sell my parents if you need the extra cash.”

“Albert . . .”

“I made a will—actually, over the years I think I’ve made seven wills. Maybe eight? My point here is, you can never be too prepared.”

Anna raised an eyebrow. Albert, still sweating, did not notice.

“The most current one is the in the top drawer of—oh, you know what, I actually think for that one I made over most of my stuff to Louise.”

“ _Albert_.”

“I should have made a new one, but life was just so great, you know? For us. I actually started to think that with you by my side, I might even live to be thirty.”

“This is not helping—”

“Tell you what, just tear up the will. All the wills. Say you never found one. That way you’ll get it all, cause I died intestate.”

“You’re _not_ going to—”

“Which does not mean what I first thought it did when I heard that word, by the way. I thought it was more like how Farmer McCready went, when the bull got him . . . you know.”

“Albert, this is nuts.”

“ _Down there_.”

“Yes, Albert, I had gathered what you thought it—”

“Oh wait. If I die without a will, does that mean my parents will get part of everything too?”

“You are blowing this way out of proportion.”

“Anna,” he coughed delicately. “You have my permission to kill my parents to secure your inheritance.”

Anna shook her head incredulously. “There’s no way I’m ever going to—”

“Son, can you tell your two-bit whore to stop mollycoddling you?” the senior Mr. Stark bellowed from his place at the dinner table. “Your mother and I want second helpings.”

Anna cast a deeply unimpressed glare in the direction of the table, then nodded reluctantly at her husband.

“Okay,” she said, “that’s a ‘maybe’ on the murdering your parents.”

“In fact, if I survive, maybe that’s something we could think about doing together.”

“What, kill your parents?”

“Like an anniversary thing.”

“It’s not even our—”

“Well, we’ll wait. Til June.”

This time both of Anna’s eyebrows made the ascent toward her hairline.

“We were married in March, Albert.”

“What, seriously?”

Anna nodded.

“Christ, that’s a fucking stupid month to get married.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why _I_ suggested June, but _you_ said it had to be March because you’d just gotten that splinter from a fence rail and you thought the wound would turn septic, so you insisted on making an honest woman of me before you died.”

“That was thoughtful of me.”

“It was . . . something.”

“And now look. Eight months later—”

“—eleven—”

“—eleven months of wedded bliss later, it’s finally happened. But eleven months is pretty good. That’s more than a lot of people have together, living out here.”

“Albert—”

“We’re really very lucky, when you think about it.”

“ _Albert_.”

“Sorry it has to end like this.”

“ALBERT!”

Albert blinked, staring up at the tiny tower of flaming fury that was his wife of ~~eight~~ eleven months.

“. . . yes, dear?”

“Albert. You are _not_ dying.”

“I’m pretty sure I am.”

“I know you _think_ you are. But you’re not dying. It was just the cake.”

“What?”

“You know how you were all excited about the cake for your birthday meal?”

“Yeah. It was great. I haven’t had a cake since— actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had cake.”

“Mm-hmm,” she rubbed the back of his hand fondly. “I kinda guessed when you went for it with both fists.”

“Look, any dessert out here might be your last. Sometimes you don’t even live through the whole meal. Did you know that Mrs. MacGregor, a sweet little churchgoing mother of ten, died last week just from drinking water?”

“That wasn’t water, it was industrial alcohol. Some kind of mixup at the saloon.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a surprise, actually. Even paint thinner is usually a safer bet than the drinking water around here.”

“Right. Okay. But, back to the cake.”

“It was delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked it. Just, do you remember how I said there was a secret ingredient?”

Albert squinted.

“Kind of.”

“Oh for Chrissakes Albert, it was forty minutes ago!”

“Yeah, but I hit my head _really_ hard, so . . .”

“It was beans.”

“What—the secret ingredient?”

Anna nodded earnestly.

“It’s a trick I learned a long time ago to make flour stretch farther. You thicken the cake better with bean paste.”

“Okay . . .”

“So that pain in your side, the one you’re convinced is your appendix or your gall bladder or a voodoo curse?”

“Maybe I whistled over somebody’s grave? I think that’s supposed to be bad luck. And people are buried all over the place here, it’s almost impossible not to whistle on a grave or two.”

“Well it’s probably just—”

A low, fluting note split the air. Anna flinched and Albert flushed scarlet.

“—gas,” she finished.

Albert lay, stunned, on the bed a moment longer. Then he clapped a hand to his side in disbelief.

“It—it doesn’t hurt anymore!”

Anna straightened up and smiled at him.

“There, you see?”

“I can’t even—what—this is _amazing_!” Albert leaped straight out of bed in jubilation. ”This is incredible! I’m going to _live_! We can celebrate our anniversary in four months—”

“One month.”

“—one month! Bridget won’t be an orphan!”

“Well you aren’t actually her father, so she never would have been—”

“Anna, this is _wonderful_!” He caught her around the waist and spun her in a tight circle through the air. “Can you believe it? I mean, gas! Sure, _miners_ have problems with that, but no ordinary person ever died from their own—”

A second, slightly higher note split the air. Albert paused mid-spin, set his wife down, and looked over to the kitchen table where his parents had helped themselves to another serving of cake.

“Hah,” said Mr. Stark, clutching his side. “You forgot about perforated bowel, didn’t you, boy? Fucking idiot.”

And he toppled over, dead.

Mrs. Stark took another bite of cake. “Dibs,” she said, indicating her husband’s half-finished plate.

Albert sighed.

“I hate the fucking west.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think we might have chatted about this elsewhere, so I kind of had it on my mind already. Then when I saw your request I just couldn't resist; I love these two!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
